


Good Enough

by junipermoss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Car Accidents, Dog Walker Bucky Barnes, Dogs, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Light Angst, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Meet-Cute, Minor Injuries, Paramedic Sam Wilson, Protective Sam Wilson, Sam and Natasha Bromance, WinterFalcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junipermoss/pseuds/junipermoss
Summary: Bucky Barnes is an anxious dog walker who takes his job very seriously. Sam Wilson is a paramedic who takes his job seriously-ish. When Sam responds to an emergency call, their paths cross.It gets worse from there.In a good way.Probably.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's one in the morning and idk what I'm doing

With every footstep, his skeleton erupts in static. Wind slices at his cheeks and his boots are sinking into the snow, but all he can feel is the painful tingling consuming his fingertips. The bridge slopes elegantly below him, hovering above the small canal. The moon breathes softly above. This is supposed to be a beautiful night. 

“Sam,” says a voice to his left, gently urgent, accompanied by the soft thuds of approaching footsteps. Wide eyes look up at him through windblown red hair, and a gentle hand touches his shoulder. “Sam, me or Steve could do it,” she says. “Really, it’s fine.” 

Somehow, he shakes his head. “I’m going.” 

Natasha hesitates, then nods, her face soft and burning with winter blush. “Then you gotta move.” 

Move. Right. He makes himself nod and then can’t stop. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He clears his throat of its rigid mass of horror and forces himself forward, his muscles jerking as if he’d just climbed out of the icy water below. “Okay.” 

It’s Bucky’s car down there—Sam knows it. He knows it from that stupid goddamn alligator toy on the radio antennae and the peeling “Adopt Don’t Shop” sticker barely hanging on to the driver’s door. It’s Bucky’s car down there below the bridge, twisted and mangled and half-submerged in frigid water. Sam swallows once, then again. 

“Don’t throw up,” Natasha says helpfully, ushering him toward the back of a waiting truck. She tosses him a drysuit, flashing a sort of sympathetic half-smile, and Sam works to force his stiff limbs into the dark material. 

Steve appears beside them, face fitted with its usual calm determination. He’s working to wriggle his own suit up over his hips. With a smile, he glances at Sam, probably waiting to exchange the smug remarks they make each time they have to wear these stupid things, but he stops short. He looks to Natasha, then back at Sam. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, halting with his suit half-on. 

Natasha shifts, grimacing. “That’s, um, Bucky,” she says, nodding over the edge of the bridge. 

Steve’s eyes blow wide, and his horrified gaze snaps to Sam. “Bucky? Your Bucky? With the dogs?” 

Sam nods, zipping his suit fast enough it could tear in half, and pushes away from the group. Wanda is waiting near the bridge’s edge, securing a cable to the rail, and she offers him the other end. He loops it around his belt and secures it with a carabiner. 

“I can’t see too well,” she says, pursing her lips, “but it looks to be a male, pretty young-ish, I’d say.” 

Sam scoffs weakly. “Yeah, I know.” 

Wanda looks up, her expression a perfect mirror of Steve’s. “You know him?”

He ignores her, pulling the line tighter around his waist. “Just… get me down there. Please.” 

After a moment, she nods. “We’ve dropped a life raft down there already. It’s hooked to your line so you won’t lose it. There’s some PFDs in there, too, and the emergency med bag. Try to keep him calm, yeah?” 

Sam tosses one leg over the railing. “Yeah, I got it.” 

“I know you do, Sam.” 

Sam finds himself craving the confidence Wanda is instilling in him—he still feels like he could crumble right out of his skin. Standing on the edge, he can see more of the car: the crumpled hood and shattered windshield, the mashed front bumper. The back half vanishes into dark water. 

“Ready?” Wanda asks. 

He breathes, his lungs a tangle of fluttering ribbon. “Ready.”

She lowers the line. 

TWO MONTHS EARLIER 

“Guys, please,” Steve sighs, his head falling into his hands. “I genuinely can’t take any more of this.” 

Natasha smirks. “Just because you don’t have the capacity to understand Paper Towel Soccer doesn’t mean you have to shit on it, Rogers.” 

Steve tosses up his hands. “Who wouldn’t understand it? It’s literally the most self-explanatory title I can imagine.” 

“You can’t understand until you play,” Sam says, kicking the mutilated paper towel roll toward his makeshift goal: two folding chairs spaced a few feet apart. Natasha lunges, blocking it easily. “Damn,” he hisses. 

“Please tell me you at least finished your paperwork,” Steve sighs. 

“Of course, man,” Sam replies, blocking Natasha’s shot and sending the roll hurtling into the wall of the garage. “We’re professionals.” 

“Plus, we already restocked the truck,” Natasha says, fishing the roll from behind a shelf. A thick wad of torn napkin flakes off and leaves a pitiful snarl of miserable cardboard. “Oh. I think we lost him, guys.” 

“Aw, no,” Sam grieves. 

“Thank god,” Steve exhales. 

Their first call finds them rushing into the ambulance, Steve hopping into the driver’s seat, Natasha beside him, and Sam crouching in the back. Steve flicks on the siren as Natasha relays the location from dispatch. 

“Okay, so the guy on the phone was pretty freaked out,” the radio squeaks, warbling through static. Sam recognizes the voice as Scott Lang, the most immature professional he knows who he’s only had the honor of meeting once. “But basically his dog… tackled an elderly man. The—Natasha, do not fucking laugh. The old guy’s conscious but thinks he broke his hip or something. Definitely needs a stretcher. Not sure what else.” 

“Are police responding?” Steve asks. 

“No, don’t think so,” Scott answers. “They probably want him settled in hospital before they ask if he wants to press charges.” 

“Can he do that?” Sam asks. "Press charges?"

“I don’t know, man, I just take calls.” 

“Well, thanks anyway, Scott,” Natasha says. 

"No problemo, kids."

Natasha hangs up the radio as Steve steers the ambulance through a web of suburban neighborhoods and halfway-busy intersections. 

“You know who never tackles helpless geriatrics?” Sam says when they near the park. “Cats.” 

Natasha grunts. “They’re too small. If they were bigger, they definitely would.” 

“Why are you so against cats?” 

“Steve, help me out here. Tell Sam you’ve never met a cat that’s not an asshole.” 

“I’m allergic to cats,” Steve admits. 

“See?” Natasha crosses her arms. “They’re dangerous.” 

Before Sam can fire back, Steve leans forward, shouting “there!” and pulling the ambulance up to the curb. Immediately, Sam jumps from the back doors and lowers the stretcher as Natasha navigates around him to pick up the backboard. 

Sam’s pretty sure he would’ve been able to tell what happened without Scott’s excellent commentary. There’s a man lying on the sidewalk sporting classic old-guy loafers and clutching his left hip, his wrinkled face taut with pain. Beside him is a young man on his knees, looking severely guilty and entirely out of his depth. He’s just sort of hovering over the old guy, and Sam can hear a murmured “sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, sorry…” that the elder counters with “fuck you and your stupid fucking dog.” 

Said stupid fucking dog is a safe distance away, its leash looped loosely around a bench leg. It’s a golden retriever, Sam notices, which sort of surprises him because he’s pretty sure golden retrievers are those All-American baseball family dogs and not dogs that like to steamroll the elderly. 

Sam deposits the stretcher a few feet away and joins the men, crouching across from the younger guy. He looks down at the old man. 

“Sir, I’m a paramedic; can you tell me your name?” Sam asks. 

“Bernard,” the man answers roughly, and Sam thinks this might be the most old-man old man he’s ever met. 

“Okay, Bernard, everything’s going to be just fine. Is your hip hurting you?” he asks. 

A jerky nod. “This stupid kid and his damn dog,” he grits out, then stops to breathe, “fucking attacked me.” 

Sam glances up at the man, who looks as though he wants to evaporate. His dark eyebrows are drawn up and his pale eyes shimmer with anxiety. He’s barely Sam’s age, maybe younger. 

“Okay,” Sam nods, and looks back to Bernard. “We can deal with them later. For now let’s get you fixed up, alright?” 

Bernard nods again, and Natasha steps in with the backboard. As she and Steve maneuver their patient, a hand comes to lightly grasp Sam’s arm. 

“I’m so sorry,” the younger man says urgently. “I swear it was an accident; Jodie just gets excited sometimes, she didn’t mean to hurt him.” 

Sam shakes his head. “Hey, calm down. What’s your name?” 

“Uh, James.” 

“Okay, James, it’s gonna be fine,” Sam says. “Probably. He’s likely just upset because he’s hurting and he’s in shock, but he’ll probably be forgiving when he’s taken care of. Probably.” 

James steps away, shaking his head, bringing a hand to his forehead. That’s when Sam notices his other sleeve is empty, pinned against his shoulder. “I can’t pay for this,” James pants. “I’m a dog walker.” 

“James,” Sam says firmly, “it’s gonna be fine. Chill out before you end up on the stretcher, too. Bernard is definitely not looking to bunk with you.”

James nods and sucks in a breath, casting a nervous glance toward the retriever—Jodie, Sam remembers. “Do I need to come with you guys?” 

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’d say so.” 

“Okay,” he breathes, slipping a cell phone from his pocket. “Okay, um, I’m just gonna call somebody to pick Jodie up.” 

While James calls, Sam helps Steve and Natasha push the stretcher, now complete with its disgruntled patient, into the ambulance. Natasha crosses to the front and pulls out the radio, updating the hospital and requesting x-rays first thing. 

Steve readies himself in the driver’s seat while Sam settles next to the stretcher. After a moment, James appears at the back doors, looking uncertain. 

“Come on in,” Sam invites, waving an arm at the opposite bench. 

“Oh, you’re kidding me,” Bernard grumbles as James lowers himself beside him. 

“Sorry,” James says.

Sam almost chuckles before refocusing on the patient. “It’s a real short ride back to the hospital, so don’t worry, and then we’ll get you straight into x-rays so we can see what happened.”

“This idiot tried to kill me, ’s what happened,” Bernard mutters, and James grimaces. 

“Well, I mean, technically it was the dog,” Sam offers, and James cringes even more. Not helpful, then. 

James’ leg is bouncing and he keeps tucking fallen strands of hair behind his ears. Eventually he just tries to redo his bun, but it looks difficult one-handed, and then he drops his hair tie and doesn’t want to lean down by Bernard to get it, so he just sort of sits there. Sam tries very hard not to laugh. 

“How long you been growing it out?” he asks instead.

James looks unsure, then shrugs. “A year, maybe.” 

Sam nods. “It’s nice. Very mountain man-esque.” 

“Well… that’s not quite what I was going for, but I’ll take it.” James smiles, then, and it’s almost startling to see him with any expression other than mortified.

He might be halfway decent-looking, Sam decides. 

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, a swarm of nurses take Bernard into the building, and Steve follows to accept the paperwork. Sam begins to disinfect the stretcher while Natasha pretends to reorganize the ambulance’s supplies. 

“Uh,” James says, “am I supposed to go with him?”

“Eh, probably not,” Sam replies, wiping down the rail of the stretcher. “They’ll probably come looking for you after they’ve, you know, assessed the damage.” 

James swallows. “Okay.” 

X-rays take a while, apparently. Sam and Natasha finish cleaning pretty quickly, and Steve reemerges with the paperwork after only five minutes. The entire time, James occupies the corner of the garage, mastering the art of looking uncomfortable. 

Steve glances toward him, then lightly kicks Sam’s shin. 

“What?” Sam hisses. 

Steve gestures toward James, characteristically unsubtle. 

“What do you want me to do?” Sam whispers. 

“I don’t know. Make him feel better,” Steve shrugs. 

“Steve, he thinks he’s gonna go to federal prison or something. How am I supposed to make that better?” 

“Well,” Steve scoffs, “we’ve got plenty of cleaning supplies for you and Nat to make another dumbass sport out of.” 

“Okay, that was uncalled for.”

“Just do something.” 

“You do something.” 

“Sam, you—”

“James!” Natasha calls, and James’ head snaps up. “Wanna learn how to use a defibrillator?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!  
> I'll probably be updating this almost daily because I have nothing else to do and because it's kinda fun lmao

Just before he’s about to leave for home, Sam realizes James left his hair tie in the ambulance. It’s a little sky blue band, dotted with daisy designs, forgotten beside a wheel of the stretcher.

Sam supposes he should give it back to him. 

James had left shortly after Natasha almost fried them both with the defibrillator, whisked off into the hospital to face Bernard. He looked pale when he shot Sam a final glance, like he was asking to be saved, or shot, but all Sam could give was a shrug and a sympathetic smile. James hadn’t come back after that. 

That should’ve been the end of it. 

But then Sam had to spot that little floral scrunchie, and, to his dismay, found himself relieved he hadn’t lost James completely. 

“I need James’ phone number,” he says casually, closing his locker. 

Steve looks up from his backpack. “For what?” 

Sam blinks. “Follow-up.” 

“Follow-up?” 

“Yes. Follow-up.” 

“About?” 

“He left something in the truck,” Sam shrugs. “Also, I wanna know if he ended up getting sued or not.”

Steve stares at him for a moment, microscopically lifts one eyebrow, and then scoffs. “I mean, sure. The file’s over there.” He nods toward the table just beside the hospital entrance. 

“Thanks.”

James’ name is scrawled nervously in the witness section, along with his phone number and insurance information. Sam copies the number into his contacts and then stares blankly at his phone screen. 

_Hey_ , he types, and then deletes it. How do normal people text?

To his right, Natasha pulls the door open and looks back at him expectantly.

“You coming?” she asks, one hand on the doorknob. The next shift has already arrived, bustling around the garage.

Sam nods and shoves his cell phone into his pocket, feeling like it’s heavier now. He loops James’ hair tie around his wrist and follows Natasha out the door. 

His apartment is lonely. It became lonely when his little sister went to California for college and it’s been lonely ever since. She left her old scarf on the coat rack, saying she wouldn’t need it in Sacramento, and it still hangs there, untouched. 

Sam sighs. It’s only six. There’s still time to contact James, he supposes, if he ever figures out what the hell to say.

Fuck it.

“I’m gonna call him,” he tells Sarah’s scarf. 

Fast enough that he won’t lose his nerve, he pulls out his phone, clicks on James’ name, and presses ‘call.’ 

It rings, then rings again, a hollow buzzing sound. Sam holds his breath. The scarf does, too. 

“Hello?” 

Shit. “Uh, hey, it’s Sam.” 

There’s silence for a moment. “I don’t think I know a Sam, I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” Sam cringes. “Sorry, I’m the paramedic. From, you know, the dog thing.” 

A tired exhale. “Oh, right. Again, I’m so sorry, I was—”

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine. I just wanted to return… your property… that you left in the ambulance.” He grimaces. 

“My property?” 

“Yeah, um. Your hair tie.”

“My… my hair tie.” 

Sam bites his lip. “Yeah, I gotta return it. It’s policy,” he lies. 

“ _Policy _,” James repeats, and if Sam’s not imagining it, his voice is faintly shaped around a smile.__

____

__

“Yep.” 

“Um… okay. I’ll text you my address?” 

Sam nods, though James can’t see him. “Sure. Yeah, sounds good. Thanks.” 

He hangs up before James can respond, tossing his phone onto the couch. “That could’ve gone worse.” 

The scarf dangles, unimpressed.

“Well, I mean,” Sam sighs, running a hand over his hair, “could’ve gone better.” 

  


James only lives about three blocks from Sam, in a tall, beige apartment building beside a bait shop and a diner. He’s waiting in the lobby when Sam arrives, hand shoved in his pocket. 

“Hey,” Sam says, and James gives a sheepish smile. 

“Hey.” 

The inside of James’ apartment reminds Sam of those little cottages that bears live in in children’s books. It’s small and wooden and cozy, and all the furniture is a calm shade of earthy green. The fridge is plastered with post-it notes and flyers, almost all from the local shelter. 

What really catches Sam’s eye, though, is the matted white dog sitting at the center of the room, complete with crusty, clouded eyes and a yellowing snaggletooth. 

“What the hell is that thing?” 

James laughs. “This,” he says, leaning down to scratch the thing’s head, “is Stuart. He used to be Bernard’s.” 

“He gave him to you?” Sam asks, surprised.

“Well,” James shrugs, “we sort of had this huge argument about who was at fault, and we weren’t really getting anywhere. Eventually I think he just felt bad for me, so. I’m paying him back.” 

“So,” Sam blinks, “you break his hip and he curses you with his goblin-dog as payback.” 

“Essentially, yeah,” James nods. He crouches beside the dog and scratches its ear. “Apparently he’s been trying to get rid of him for a while.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Sam mutters.

James laughs. “He’s a sweetheart, though, look.” 

Sam watches as Stuart leans into James’ hand, his tail wagging lazily. “Whatever you say, man.” 

James smiles down at the disgusting dog and chuckles, a soft sound that sparks an almost-tangible warmth in Sam’s sternum. He clears his throat, and James looks up, his grin melting into self-consciousness.

“Um,” he says, standing up, “do you wanna sit down? I’ve got… orange juice.” 

“Fancy,” Sam remarks, settling on a loveseat a safe distance from Stuart.

James shrugs. “I haven’t gone for groceries in a while.” 

“Busy man,” Sam replies, and then bites his tongue. Was that a weird thing to say? He’s probably coming off weird. For fuck’s sake, be cool. 

To his relief, James only nods, pushing his hair back. “Yeah. I gotta figure out what to do with this guy—” he motions to Stuart, who’s chewing his own foot— “while I’m at the shelter tomorrow. I don’t know if he can be left alone. He looks…” 

“Radioactive?” 

“I mean, yeah, probably.” James laughs. 

This is his chance, Sam realizes. And, because apparently there is no connection between his brain and his mouth, he blurts, “I’ll stay with him. I’m off work tomorrow.” 

James looks up, wide-eyed. “Um, thanks, but… I don’t want you to have to hang around here all day, you know…” 

Fuck. Sam’s just invited himself, a stranger, to spend the day in James’ apartment when he isn’t there. That’s creepy. He’s probably freaking him out. Shit. _Shit _. How is he supposed to fix—__

____

____

“But if you want to come to the shelter with me, you could,” James offers. “And we could watch him there. But only if you want to; I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything—”

“Yeah! Yeah, that sounds great,” Sam says. 

“Okay,” James grins, and then, softer: “Thanks, Sam.” 

Sam smiles, and he doesn’t even mean to. 

It isn’t until he’s halfway down the block from James’ apartment, heading home, that he realizes James’ hair tie is still on his wrist. 

“You got any cats here?” Sam asks, rubbing a hand down his face. Assorted irritating dog noises echo through the shelter. 

James looks up from the dog food bag. “They’re in the other building,” he says. “Shuri takes care of them, mostly.” 

Sam pouts and pokes Stuart with his foot. The dog has been sprawled on the floor the whole time James has been feeding the shelter dogs, occasionally trying to dramatically gnaw at his paws. 

“You know, he doesn’t do very much,” Sam observes, and James laughs. 

“Probably because he’s, like, ninety,” he says, setting a full bowl before an excited labrador. 

“Probably.” 

Sam watches as James kneels before a small German shepherd and presses a kiss to its nose. He sets its food down and it dives in, its tail blurring with excitement. 

“So, James—”

“Bucky.” 

“What?” 

James shrugs. “You can call me Bucky. All my friends do.”

Friends, then. Sam bites back an idiotic smile. 

“So, _Bucky _,” he emphasizes, “how long you been working here?”__

____

____

“A couple years,” Bucky says. “I moved here from Brooklyn.” 

“Wow.” Sam raises his eyebrows. He looks around the shelter, a large concrete expanse with fenced kennels and dog toys scattered in the corners. “Do you own this place, then?” 

Bucky scoffs. “God, no. I just work here. As you can tell, we’re severely understaffed.” He shakes his head, then looks back to Sam. “What about you? How long you been a paramedic?” 

“Three years,” Sam answers. “But I was in school for… well, a longass time.” 

“I bet.” 

“And you? Where’d you go to college?” 

“Nowhere,” Bucky smiles, glancing toward the floor. “I was a bit too stupid.” 

“Hey now,” Sam says. “You definitely could’ve gotten in somewhere.” 

“I know. I mean, I wanted to, I was going to, but…” Bucky glances away, blinks harshly a few times, and shrugs. Sam decides this might be a conversation for another time. Or maybe never.

“Okay,” he says softly as Bucky takes in a shaky inhale. “That’s okay.” 

Bucky laughs weakly and stands. “Let’s go walk some dogs,” he says, and heads for the leashes hung on the wall.

They take each dog walking on the grassy dirt road beside the shelter. Or, actually, Bucky takes a new dog each time and Sam drags Stuart up and down the road beside him. 

“Ask me another one,” he says, lightly elbowing Bucky. 

Bucky laughs. “Um… the funniest one you’ve seen.” 

“Hm…” Sam hums, watching Bucky’s hair brush his neck as they walk. “I don’t know if it’s the funniest, but you’d be surprised how many dads get stuck in their chimneys at Christmastime.” 

“No way.” 

“Yup,” Sam smiles. “And more often than not, they’re wearing the Santa outfit and everything.” 

“Oh, god.” 

“But the grossest one,” Sam says, grabbing Bucky’s shoulder, “was a guy who got his _foot_ stuck in _the garbage disposal_.” 

Bucky gapes. “How does that even happen?” 

Sam shrugs. “All I know is… yikes. Man, that thing looked like… lasagna, or something.” 

Bucky covers his face. “God, Sam, don’t say that!” 

“What? It did! Or, like, imagine you dumped a can of ravioli into a blender, and then—”

“Oh, my god, stop!” Bucky laughs. 

Sam watches his blue eyes crease as he shakes his head. It’s almost intoxicating, to make him laugh. Subtly, Sam inches a little closer, just so their shoulders bump every few steps. He feels like he’s in second grade again. 

Eventually, Stuart becomes too tired or too disgruntled, or maybe his little troll legs just give up, and Sam has to carry him. He’s light, thank God, but he smells about as lovely as he looks. 

Still, somehow, this is nice. It’s autumn, and the breeze is gently chilled, leaving dry leaves skating across the ground. Halloween decorations are strung up along the occasional fence, and jack-o-lanterns scowl from doorsteps. And even though he’s got a disheveled, noxious dog in his arms, he’s content. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Bucky says suddenly. He’s staring at him so intently that Sam almost blushes. “You didn’t have to do all this.” 

Sam shrugs. “It’s no trouble. All I’ve been doing is lugging this ogre, anyway.”

“I know, but…” he looks down, away, and back at Sam. “Still.” 

Sam just shakes his head and bumps Bucky’s shoulder. He makes it a few steps before he realizes Bucky is no longer beside him, and he turns to find him frozen, his hand clamped over his mouth. 

“Buck?” he asks. “You okay?” 

“Your…” Bucky says, looking down at Sam’s shirt. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

Sam shifts Stuart in his arms and glances down, almost expecting to see the hilt of a knife sticking out of his abdomen. Instead he finds a giant smear of dog shit, which is probably equally bad. Or worse. 

“Oh.” he says. 

Bucky rushes to him, his hand hovering anxiously over Sam’s shirt. He takes Stuart and sets him down carefully, then runs a hand through his hair. 

“Well,” Sam sighs, “he shat on me.” 

Bucky looks up. “I’m so sorry, Sam, I didn’t…” he cuts himself off, rubbing harshly at his eyebrow with an unsteady hand. 

“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Sam says. “It’s not your fault; it just… happens, right?” 

Bucky nods, though he looks like he’s on the verge of either diving into the nearby ditch or tunneling into the ground just below him. 

“I’m a paramedic, man,” Sam assures him. “Believe it or not, I’ve been in contact with many unpleasant substances.” 

Bucky exhales. “Yeah, well, this was supposed to be… _pleasant _.”__

____

____

Sam shrugs. “It’s good enough.” 

When they return to the shelter, Bucky finds Sam one of his old hoodies and then spends five minutes trying to scrub the shit out of Sam's shirt. It doesn’t work, but Sam thinks he might be generating enough friction to start a fire, which is impressive. 

“Buck,” he says eventually. “I have a million shirts. It’s okay.” 

With a sigh, Bucky drops the shirt and leans back on his heels. “I’m sorry, Sam.” 

“For what? I’ve had a great time.” 

“You got…” Bucky tosses up his hand, “...shit on.” 

Sam shrugs easily. “Worth it,” he says. 

Bucky just shakes his head and turns away, but he’s smiling—Sam can tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Happy New Year's Eve! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some blood in this one but nothing terribly graphic

“Take a left here,” Natasha says urgently, and Steve yanks on the wheel, sending Sam stumbling into the ECG monitor. Outside of the ambulance, naked trees blur into a whirl of muddy light. 

When the call first came, it had been a relief: Steve and Natasha had been grilling Sam about Bucky and placing bets on when they’d elope. But then Scott had told them about the man in the forest who fell out of a tree with a running chainsaw, and Steve had whispered “Jesus” and ushered them into the ambulance. 

Now they’re navigating through the twisting, overgrown roads of the woods, with Natasha shouting directions and Sam in the back scrambling for supplies. 

Finally they spot a small group of people gathered on the road, hikers and campers and a couple forest rangers, and they hurtle to a stop. Sam bursts through the back doors, slinging a med bag over his shoulder, and runs up to one of the rangers, who is standing, aghast, with a hand on her forehead. 

“Where?” he asks, and she points to a spot in front of them, down a small slope. It’s dotted with trees and flooded with a sea of dead leaves. Sam can see another, smaller group huddled around a figure on the forest floor, some kneeling and some unable to look down. 

He starts toward them. The group must hear his footsteps kicking up leaves, because they part like it’s rehearsed and then Sam can see the man on the ground, pale as snow and glossed with blood. 

Sam swallows and comes to kneel beside him. The chainsaw must have landed on his abdomen, because there’s a huge, deep gash—a ragged trench of dark blood and exposed flesh. Sam pulls out a gauze pad and presses it to the laceration, eliciting a breathless wheeze from the body below him, and leans forward on the wound. The man doesn’t even scream, just makes a small, choked noise and shifts his head minutely. Too far gone, Sam thinks. But he shakes his head anyway and presses harder.

Natasha thunders to a stop beside him, the backboard in tow, and he hears her breath catch as she takes in the scene. 

“It’s alright,” Sam says, meeting the man’s hazy eyes. “You’re gonna be alright.” 

Natasha drops the backboard beside him and Sam helps slide him aboard, pulling straps across his legs and shoulders. Steve stands, waiting, at the top of the ridge. 

“Steve!” Natasha calls. “He needs blood.” 

Steve nods and jumps into the back of the ambulance as Natasha and Sam ready themselves on either side of the backboard. A couple civilians stand, too, taking the empty sides, and they slowly trudge up the slope. 

Steve is waiting at the top, and they load the man onto the stretcher, starting immediately with a blood transfusion. 

“Can you tell me your name?” Sam asks, leaning over his head. The man stares up at the sky, blinking slowly. “You’re gonna be fine,” Sam reminds him, even though he isn’t, even though he’s dying right now and the blood trickling into his veins isn’t enough to make up for the crimson stream flowing from his stomach. “You’re gonna be fine.” 

He dies twice on the way to the hospital, once for twelve seconds until they can get his heart beating again, and once for good, after it won’t beat any longer. 

Sam and Natasha stare at each other from opposite sides of the ambulance, their lost patient between them. In the driver’s seat, Steve flicks off the siren, and the world is abruptly quiet. 

Sam doesn’t want to go home. He’s been standing outside the garage, his bag packed and ready, since the man was taken to the morgue. Natasha and Steve have already left, offering weak smiles and pats on the shoulder. 

_Hey _, he texts Bucky, and he’d like to think he doesn’t even know why he does it, but he does: because, as little as he knows him, Bucky sort of makes him happy, and he wants to be sort of happy right now. He can’t go back to his apartment to sit on his cold couch and think of the corpse he couldn’t save.__

__**Bucky** : _Hey__ _

__**Bucky** : _how was work__ _

__Sam laughs dryly.__

__

__**You** : Bad _ _

__

__

__**Bucky** : _oh. sorry.__ _

__There’s a few moments where Bucky sends nothing more, and Sam sighs, sliding his phone back into his pocket and heading to his car. But as soon as he turns on the ignition, his phone hums, its screen glowing with a new message._ _

__**Bucky** : _wanna come over? i promise stuart won’t shit on you this time__ _

__

__Stupidly, Sam feels nervous again when he parks in the lot at Bucky’s building. Of course he shouldn’t: they’re friends, Bucky said so himself. But still he finds himself giving a minor pep talk in the front seat of his car before he goes in._ _

__He passes a beat-up red Chevy, which has an ad for the shelter on the back bumper and an “Adopt Don’t Shop” sticker plastered to its side. On the radio antennae, perched precariously at the top, is a rubber alligator that’s oscillating in the wind. Sam laughs weakly and shakes his head._ _

__

__Bucky is wearing a light gray sweater when he opens the door, one sleeve tied at the shoulder. He looks nervous, too, Sam thinks, which is vaguely reassuring._ _

__He motions for Sam to enter, and he does, the apartment warming him almost instantly. There are noodles boiling on the stove, and Stuart is sprawled on the floor of the kitchen, snoring loudly._ _

__“He likes to be in here while I cook,” Bucky explains, and Sam nods doubtfully. “You like spaghetti?”_ _

__Sam nods. “Yeah, that’s—that’s fine.”_ _

__Bucky eyes him for a moment, then turns back to the stove, ladling large spoonfuls of noodles into two bowls and then blanketing them in red sauce. Sam wonders if he made this before or after he knew Sam was coming._ _

__Bucky takes the bowls to the table and sets them down. “What do you want to drink?”_ _

__Sam shrugs. “Whatever.”_ _

__“Wine?”_ _

__“Sure.”_ _

__This almost feels like a date. It’s not, Sam knows, but it feels like one._ _

__Bucky sets the wine glasses beside their plates and sits down, Stuart immediately following to curl up at his feet. Sam settles across from him, and when Bucky smiles, softly, he smiles back._ _

__They eat mostly in silence, nervous but content in each other’s company. Occasionally Stuart will sneeze or snort or make some other strange dog-monster noise, and Sam will look disturbed while Bucky laughs._ _

__They move into the living room after they eat, settling on the loveseat. Bucky has been watching Sam all evening, looking mildly concerned, so Sam isn’t surprised when he finally asks._ _

__“You okay?” he says softly._ _

__Sam shrugs. “Yeah, just… bad day.”_ _

__Bucky nods and shifts to better face him, his expression drawn up in sympathy. “What happened?”_ _

__“We just…” Sam looks away, blinks, and shrugs again. “We, uh, lost somebody.”_ _

__Bucky’s hand settles softly on his shoulder. “Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”_ _

__“I told him he was gonna be okay. He probably didn’t even hear me, but…” His voice fades out and he looks down at his hands, lying still in his lap._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again._ _

__Sam shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s… it’s part of it.”_ _

__“I know,” Bucky says sadly, but then he’s hugging Sam anyway, his arm wrapped gently around Sam’s neck. Sam stills for a moment, his heart freezing and then nearly imploding, before he hugs him back. Bucky’s sweater is soft on his arms and his thumb gently moves back and forth on Sam’s shoulder blade, and Sam sort of wants to cry but he squeezes his eyes shut instead and leans his face into Bucky’s shoulder._ _

__They don’t pull apart until Stuart begins hacking up a lung below them, and they break into soft laughter._ _

__

__It’s nice having somebody to think about, Sam decides the next morning. Of course, there are still moments when he thinks of his somewhat lonely, work-consumed life; of his many mistakes; of yesterday’s corpse on his stretcher; but there is a sort of haven amid all of that. There’s somewhere he can return to, even for just a moment—somewhere as warm and soft and kind as Bucky’s sweater. Even the thought of Stuart now makes him laugh rather than want to vomit._ _

__And of course, he knows it’s stupid: he’s only known Bucky for a little over a week and he’s told almost no one in his life about him (he absolutely won’t tell his sister; her scarf is judgmental enough)._ _

__He is ridiculous, he knows, but he’s happy. That’s good enough._ _

__

__He needs to make it up to Bucky, he thinks, for crashing his dinner. So naturally he should invite him over. Dinner might be too serious… lunch, then. A ‘thank you’ lunch. Or a ‘Congratulations on Not Getting Sued by that Old Guy’ lunch._ _

__An issue with his plan, however, surfaces immediately when he sends the invite._ _

__**Bucky** : _would your apartment happen to be dog-friendly?__ _

__It’s not. Sam tells him as much, supposing he can figure something else out, or just cancel altogether, when Bucky responds._ _

__**Bucky** : _i’ll just smuggle him in then__ _

__**Bucky** : _if that’s ok__ _

__Sam laughs and shakes his head.__

____

____

__**You:** If you must._ _

__

__Bucky’s smiling when Sam opens the door, holding his abdomen, which is squirming and snorting below his coat._ _

__“Your jacket’s moving,” Sam says obviously, stepping back to let him in._ _

__Bucky laughs, unzipping it carefully to pull out Stuart and set him on the ground. The dog looks around, blinks twice, sneezes, and curls up on the floor._ _

__Sam had prepared BLTs, because he’d never met anyone who disliked them and he figured it was a pretty safe choice._ _

__He’d set up in the living room, figuring they could eat in the armchairs. Is that weird? He doesn’t think so. He hopes not.__

__

__“Oh, thank you,” Bucky says when Sam hands him a large plate. As soon as Sam lets go, it tips to the left, and Bucky rushes forward to set it on the counter before all its contents slide onto the floor._ _

__“Oh, shit,” Sam says, kicking himself. He takes the plate from the counter and brings it into the living room himself, setting it down on the coffee table. “Sorry, Buck.”_ _

__Bucky laughs, and his face is flushed like he’s embarrassed. “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t really have a good grip on it,” he says. “Kinda hard one-handed.”_ _

__“Sorry,” Sam repeats, feeling like an idiot. Is this going badly already? He feels like it’s going badly._ _

__“Don’t worry,” Bucky says. “I’ve been down an arm a while. I’m usually good with most things.”_ _

__“How long?” Sam asks, and then mentally deflates like a crushed balloon because maybe that’s a sensitive topic he shouldn’t straight-out ask about._ _

__But Bucky just shrugs. “Almost ten years now.”_ _

__“Wow,” Sam says, softly, and Bucky nods with a small laugh. “You were a kid?”_ _

__“High school, yeah,” he nods, looking down at his plate. “I was fifteen and got into a car wreck and, you know, it happens, I guess." He pauses for a moment, biting his lip and picking at his thumb, like he's debating whether to go on. Sam nods encouragingly, so he continues. "I was out of school forever, seemed like, because of it... ended up barely graduating,” he says._ _

__“And…” Sam begins, remembering the conversation from the shelter, “that’s why... you couldn’t go to college?”_ _

__“Yeah,” he sighs. “Oh well.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” Sam tells him._ _

__Bucky makes a face. “It’s no big deal,” he says. “I’m okay.”_ _

__“Yeah, but…” he begins, and Bucky almost looks like he’s waiting for an insult, so Sam changes his words. “If you could go back,” he says, “to college. What would you do?”_ _

__Bucky smiles, something wistful about his expression. “Don’t know. I thought about veterinary school, but it’s expensive as hell and I don’t really do well with blood.”_ _

__“Eh,” Sam waves a hand, “it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”_ _

__Bucky laughs. “Well, not for me.”_ _

__Sam studies him for a moment, looking over the quiet vivacity in his eyes, the soft compassion ever-present in his smile. “Well, I think you’d be good at just about anything.”_ _

__Bucky looks away, blushing and shaking his head. “That'd be somethin'.”_ _

__

__“Oh,” Sam says suddenly when he’s helping shove Stuart back into Bucky’s jacket. “Natasha’s having a Halloween party on, well, Halloween, and I’ve got a plus one, just in case you didn’t have anything to do, or… you know.”_ _

__Bucky smiles, zipping his jacket. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds fun.”_ _

__And just before he steps out the door, he reaches up and kisses Sam gently on his cheekbone, his lips a breath of nervous bliss against his skin._ _

__

__“You look awfully happy today,” Steve says the next morning, while they're painstakingly restocking the ambulance. Sam just ignores him, rolling his eyes, but Natasha studies his face and then smirks._ _

__“I thought you didn’t like dog people,” she says._ _

__Sam turns away so they don’t see him smile. “Shut up.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! Happy late new year-- we made it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i took so long i literally forgot school existed over break lmao

**You** : your party is dog-friendly right 

**Nat** : I mean I guess 

**Nat** : why 

**You** : just checking 

**You** : also totally unrelated, im bringing bucky so don’t be weird 

**Nat** : I’m offended

**You** : tell Steve too

**Nat** : fine 

**Nat** : does bucky need my address 

**You** : no, i gave it to him 

**Nat** : ok

**Nat** : Are you guys wearing matching costumes ;)

**Nat** : because you should 

**Nat** : I know you read that 

Bucky arrives at Natasha's before Sam does—Sam can tell from the familiar, decrepit red car near her curb. He hopes he doesn’t have to rescue him from one of Natasha’s interrogations. 

Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ is blasting when he opens the door, tables brim with drinks and snacks, and the whole place is swallowed in Halloween decorations. People are swarming, dressed as witches and monsters and movie characters, dancing or conversing or tossing back liquor. 

Sam slides past a werewolf and one of those sexy nurses, trying to keep his footing in his stupid shoes. He’d been absolutely stumped on what the hell to wear as a costume: to be a paramedic would be lame, and he didn’t have anything scary enough or edgy enough to pull off a decent costume. As a last resort he texted Sarah, who told him to use her old makeup and one of her too-big thrift store dresses she hadn’t yet renovated. It’ll be funny, she said, and at that point he really didn’t have any other options. 

So now here he is, dressed in a white apron and a plaid red dress that hangs to his shins, with eyeliner wrinkles drawn on his face and dollar-store hair chalk tinting his hair a dusty silver. He’d bought some cheap wire glasses for effect, squeezed his feet into a pair of Mary Janes, and felt horribly stupid and ridiculous but forced himself out the door anyway. 

Honestly, he doesn’t even want Bucky to see him like this. Who the hell dresses up as a grandmother for Halloween anyway? And, more importantly, what respectable person would want to be seen with a grown man dressed up as a grandmother? He’s probably screwed this up already. Again. Fuck. 

“Sam!” he hears, and turns to see Natasha waving a hand at him. She’s wearing a banana suit, and Steve is beside her as a barely-recognizable Elvis Presley, so Sam begins to feel vaguely better about his own costume. 

And then Sam sees Stuart on the floor and follows his leash up to Bucky. His nose is painted in a pink triangle and black stitch marks criss-cross his lips. Straw sticks out of the remaining sleeve of his plaid shirt, and his hair is down, gently brushing the sides of his face. 

“Scarecrow,” Sam says, stepping toward him. “Nice.” 

Bucky smiles and looks Sam up and down, biting his lip. “And you are…?”

“Grandma,” he shrugs. Just own it, Sarah had told him—play it cool. 

But of course Bucky sees right through him and laughs. “It’s nice,” he says. “Very… creative.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

“Nice to see you, too,” Natasha quips from beside them, looking over the brim of her solo cup. 

“Hey, Nat,” Sam sighs, and nods at Steve, who nods back as one of his peeling fake sideburns flaps along. 

“We were just asking Bucky if he’s tackled any old men recently,” Natasha says, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He blushes with an awkward smile, crinkling his nose, which Sam would usually think is adorable. However, tonight Sam is Cool and Stoic so he barely registers it at all, and absolutely doesn’t try to memorize it mentally. 

“And,” Natasha adds with an exasperated slouch, “Steve’s been stealing all my eyelash glue trying to get his stupid fucking Elvis sideburns to stick to his face.” 

Steve tosses up his hands, sequins sparkling on his flared sleeves. “I can’t be Elvis without sideburns!” 

“Look at your fucking outfit, Steve!” Natasha gripes. “Who else could you possibly be?” 

As Steve searches for a comeback, Sam meets Bucky’s gaze and exchanges a tentative smile, then nods toward the refreshments table. Bucky follows him there, Stuart begrudgingly tailing behind them. 

Bucky picks up a cup. “Are they together?” he asks, jerking his head toward Elvis-Steve and Banana-Natasha. Sam laughs. 

“No,” he says. “Not that I know of.” 

“Hm,” Bucky hums. “Seems like they are. They argue like my grandparents.” 

Sam swallows a mouthful of punch, which is definitely at least 60 percent alcohol. “Maybe in another life, they were an old married couple,” he considers. 

Bucky smiles and takes a sip. “Oh, god,” he sputters, choking over his cup. “This tastes like... hand sanitizer.” 

“That’s how you know it’s a good party.” Sam sets his drink down and glances toward the living room, where a horde of people are drunkenly flailing to the Monster Mash. “Wanna dance?” 

Bucky laughs. “I’m no good at dancing.” 

“Yeah, well, look at my shoes.” 

Bucky glances down at the clunky grandmother shoes below the dress and laughs with a shake of his head. “I guess.” 

“Yeah!” Sam pumps, and reaches for Bucky’s hand to lead him to the dance floor. For a moment he internally gapes at himself—he almost can’t believe he had the guts to do that. Maybe Sarah was right, he thinks. It’s the power of the grandma dress. 

They squeeze into the living room, teetering as they’re shoved by random gawky limbs and airborne cups. Eventually they find a small pocket of space, just enough for the two of them to stand in. 

Bucky’s looking at him with his face half-shadowed and half lit up, dark green and soft orange glowing on his features. There’s a nervous smile on his face but his eyes are bright and they’re locked right onto Sam’s, and Sam has that feeling that makes him think he could go skydiving right now without even being nervous. 

After a moment, Bucky starts to nod, bobbing his head to the music, and then his shoulders follow, gently swaying side to side. Sam mirrors him, and then brings his arms up, rhythmically sweeping out his elbows. Bucky follows. 

Then the song changes to something heavy metal and the crowd erupts into chaos, screeching and then dancing like they’re possessed. Sam and Bucky hesitate, glancing at each other, unsure, and then Sam shrugs. They break into dance. 

It’s not technically dancing, Sam knows—they’re sort of just throwing themselves around in a way that loosely correlates to the beat of the music. He can see Bucky laughing, but he can’t hear him over the chaos. He takes his hand and spins him under his arm.

The crowd is pushing in every direction and the two of them are extremely close, so that every time Sam jumps he can feel Bucky’s body brushing his own, and he can feel a soft push of breath near his neck every time Bucky laughs. 

This is perfect, Sam thinks, even though the hand-sanitizer-punch is sloshing rather unpleasantly in his stomach and this song is mildly headache-inducing. This is perfect, because it’s Halloween and he’s not alone and his friends are in the other room and Bucky’s close enough to kiss. 

He’s almost forgotten he’s dressed like a grandmother when the song finally screeches to its end, followed by a song that’s definitely Kidz Bop. 

“Natasha has interesting taste,” Bucky says, panting. 

Sam nods, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. “I need more of that shitty punch.” 

At around one-thirty in the morning, Natasha calls out about a scary movie in the backyard being projected onto her fence. Sam and Bucky stumble through the back door and almost immediately flop down onto the grass. They sort of made it to the movie, which is only like fifty feet away. Or maybe farther. Vision is kind of weird right now. And so is time. And talking. 

“The ground is so soft,” Bucky whispers into the grass. Sam grunts in agreement and rolls over to face him. 

“Do you think my grandma dress is off-putting?” he slurs. 

Bucky snorts and spits a blade of grass from his mouth. “What?”

“My grandma dress. Is it a weird thing to wear to a party? I was thinking that earlier…” he stops, struggling to regain his train of thought, and then gives up, dropping his head back onto the grass.

“I think you look great, man,” Bucky says, his words long and almost musical. “Hottest grandma I’ve ever seen.” 

“Aw, thanks.” 

“Man, I didn’t even mean to say that,” Bucky tells him casually. “But you’re welcome.” 

“Do you see that bush?” Sam asks, sluggishly jerking his head toward a secluded yellow shrub on the opposite side of the house. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m gonna go throw up in it now,” he declares, staggering to his feet. Bucky raises a thumbs-up. 

Sam usually hates vomiting, but this time it’s more of a relief than anything. The nausea softens and his head clears just a bit as he straightens up, wiping his mouth and leaning against the wall. 

“I need… to go get some water,” he tells the bush. It doesn’t respond. Probably because he just barfed on it. 

Half the people are still inside, hanging around the snack tables or lounging on furniture or, somehow, still dancing. Sam reaches for two bottles of water and tucks them into his apron pocket. When he turns around, he finds Steve slouched in the corner of the kitchen, propped against the wall. 

“Elvis!” Sam calls, and Steve looks up through bleary eyes. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says as Sam slides down the wall beside him. “I didn’t know there was weed in the brownies.” 

“Oh, Steve.” 

“I know.”

Sam hesitates. “Weren’t they labeled?” 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, dropping his head into his hands. “I didn’t know that either.” 

Sam clicks his tongue. “How many’d you eat?” 

Another sigh and a miserable shake of his head. “Too many.” 

Sam pats him on the shoulder. “Well, at least your sideburns are still hangin’ on.” He scans the kitchen, which is still sort of blurry. “Where’s Nat?” 

“Outside... she’s gonna come back for me when she gets the movie set up. I think she feels bad I overdosed on her baking.” 

“Well, good luck, bud,” Sam says, slowly getting to his feet. “Don’t eat any more brownies.” 

Steve grumbles as he walks away. 

Bucky’s not in the grass when Sam returns to the yard. Instead he finds him leaning over, his hand braced on the house’s siding, vomiting. 

“Oh, hey!” Sam says. “That’s the same bush I threw up in.” 

Bucky looks up. “We’re meant to be,” he says thickly, wiping his mouth. 

Sam holds out the second water bottle, and Bucky straightens up to take it. He sloshes it around in his mouth before spitting it into the grass, and then drains half the bottle. Sam does the same. 

He can hear the movie starting on the other side of the house, eerie music and ghostly sound effects floating across the yard. Bucky is looking at him with a goofy half-smile. 

“What?” Sam asks. 

Bucky shrugs. “It’d probably be super gross if we kissed right now.” 

Sam laughs. “Yeah.” Inside his chest, his heart is practically figure-skating. 

There’s a moment where they only stand there, and Sam is sure his heartbeat must be embarrassingly audible. Bucky shifts his weight. 

“Would you want to, though, if it wasn’t?” he says. 

Sam scoffs. “I mean, yeah,” he says casually. Be cool be cool please for the love of God be cool—

“Mm,” Bucky hums, looking away. “Me too.” 

This sounds like a conversation right out of middle school, Sam realizes, but still he can’t get his stupid heart to calm down. And then it occurs to him why: because this weird, old-man-tackling, crusty-dog-having man in front of him is different somehow than everyone before him, and Sam wants every moment to be as good as he can make it. Which is super embarrassing, so Sam just decides never to admit to it and go from there. 

He steps forward and brushes Bucky’s hand, and Bucky leans in toward him and raises himself just a bit and then Sam closes his eyes and feels a soft warmth against his lips. His chest swells with something giddy and he laughs into the kiss, and Bucky laughs too as he brings his hand to Sam’s cheek. He kisses him again, not as soft but just as lovely. 

Sam gently slides a hand into Bucky’s hair and runs his thumb across his temple. Then he remembers, for the millionth time, that he’s dressed as an old woman, and he laughs again. Bucky follows, pulling away but staying close. The makeup stitches on his lips are smudged.

Sam sort of thinks that went well, which—

Abruptly Bucky’s eyes go wide and he steps back, bringing his hand to his mouth. “Oh, fuck.” 

Or not.

“What?” Sam asks, and he’s ready for the biggest embarrassment of his life because he must have done something wrong, or misread the whole situation, or—

“Stuart’s gone,” Bucky gasps. “I had him earlier and now I don’t.” 

“Oh,” Sam responds, trying to hide his relief. “When did you last see him?” 

Bucky brings a hand to his forehead, looking wholly distressed. “I have no idea.” 

“Okay. That’s okay. Let’s go and look around the neighborhood real quick, and if he’s not there we’ll put out a message online.” 

Bucky nods shakily and Sam takes his hand, leading him out to the street. 

“He’s gotta be close,” he reasons. “I’ve never seen that thing move more than four feet unprovoked.” 

“We should go this way,” Bucky says, pointing to their left. “All the fast food places are that way, maybe he smelled them.” 

“His nose still works?” 

Bucky shrugs helplessly. 

“Why don’t we just circle the block and see if we find anything?” Sam offers. At this point he’s pretty sure it might be a lost cause, at least for tonight, but Bucky looks upset and he just wants that look to go away. 

“Okay.” 

They make their way down the sidewalk in silence, avidly scanning the street. It’s difficult to see this late, the mellow orange glow of the streetlamps blurring the houses into shadow. Sam doesn’t think calling Stuart’s name would even help, because he’s not sure if that poor dog has a single working sense. 

They cut through the alley, Bucky occasionally clapping against his thigh or whistling or calling out, and Sam feels kind of horrible that he never said anything nice about that old, disgusting excuse for a dog. 

When they make it back to Natasha’s, they sink onto the doorstep in defeat. 

“I feel so bad,” Bucky admits, rubbing his forehead. “I didn’t even realize he was gone and now he’s probably scared somewhere because I was too drunk to notice.” 

Sam takes his hand, which is a normal thing now, apparently. “It’s not your fault. I should’ve noticed, too.” 

Bucky makes a small noise. There’s faint screaming coming from the movie in the back. 

Sam reaches out around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him in. He scoots closer in response, resting his hand on Sam’s leg and leaning into his chest. 

“I’m sorry about Stuart,” Sam says. “He was… unique.”

Bucky expels a weak laugh. “At least he got to shit on you before he went,” he says sadly, and Sam gives a solemn nod in response. 

He toasts with an imaginary cup. “To Stuart,” he says, and Bucky copies him before he lets his hand come back to rest on top of Sam’s. 

“To Stuart.” 

Not even a minute later, Sam’s phone lights up with a text. 

**Nat** : why is ur bf’s stinky dog in my kitchen :/


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cereal is so good

Sam doesn’t see Bucky for over a week following the Halloween party, not that he means to. The first day after had been wholly consumed by a killer hangover, during which he’d repeatedly dragged himself from the couch to the bathroom and back to the couch. 

After that came a three-day training conference in a city two hours away, where the team actually got to stay in a four-star hotel. Steve ended up breaking two coffee mugs and one fancy plate from sheer clumsiness, and Sam and Natasha broke two elevators while trying to beat each other’s “How Many Jumps Does it Take to Break the Elevator” records. 

Of course, he hadn’t been cut off from Bucky completely. He still sent him the occasional text: updates about his schedule there, what they were learning, what they were doing, and any gross medical anecdote he picked up on the way. In return he received shelter news, the goings-on of back home, and some particularly horrifying pictures of Stuart he pretended to find endearing. 

And of course, though they hadn’t spoken of it, there was the kiss. The memory was sort of blurry, faded with alcohol and bliss and exhaustion, but it still glimmered in the back of Sam’s head, causing him to smile unprofessionally during lectures on third-degree burns. 

Of course, Natasha knew somehow, because she always did. And she’d told Steve, because for some reason she told him everything. Those two were still on good terms, luckily, considering her brownies accidentally sent Steve to another plane of existence. 

“You know,” Natasha said on the last night of the conference, when the three of them were free and out in the city, “I had a friend whose parents got married after just a month and a half and were together the rest of their lives.” 

“What’s that have to do with anything?” Sam asked casually, scoffing, as if he didn’t know exactly what she was getting at. 

She shrugged and reached up to squeeze his shoulder. “Just saying.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. There were two reasons he didn’t want to argue: one, no one won an argument with Natasha, and two, he figured being around Bucky for the rest of his stupid life could probably be sort of… tolerable, or whatever. 

Sam arrived back home to the four most hectic work days of his career: four car accidents, two falls, six work-related injuries, and one old lady with her foot stuck in a toilet hole (he didn’t ask). Each morning was a rush to the garage and each night was a desperate leap into bed. 

It’s Saturday when he finally wakes up after sunrise with nothing to do. He has two pieces of toast, sits on the couch in his pajamas for approximately six minutes, and then gets bored. 

Maybe he could do something with Bucky. How does he ask that?

Subtly, he decides. 

**You** : I’m finally off today 

**Bucky** : oh good

**Bucky** : I’ll let you get some rest finally 

This is backfiring. Bring it back, bring it back. 

**You** : I’m actually not that tired just bored 

**Bucky** : oh, sorry 

Is this awkward? This feels awkward. He should say something else. 

**Bucky** : We should go do something fun 

That works, too. 

**You** : Like what?

**Bucky** : uhhh 

**Bucky** : I didn’t think that far ahead 

**You** : movie? 

**Bucky** : ooh yeah. I have to give stuart to shuri for a little bit then 

**You** : poor Shuri 

**Bucky** : shuri actually likes Stuart because she has good taste

**You** : are you saying I have bad taste??

**Bucky** : depends on what movie you pick 

Sam ends up picking a 4:00pm showing of some new action movie, which he figures is a pretty all-around agreeable choice. He waits outside the cinema for about three minutes before Bucky’s Chevy comes rattling into the parking lot. It’s closer to winter now, and the breeze is getting harsher. 

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Bucky says when he meets Sam on the sidewalk. 

He shakes his head. “Just a couple minutes.” 

Bucky hums and looks up at the building, its bulb lights flashing gold. “What’d you pick?” 

“I don’t even remember what it’s called. Something about an assassin or a serial killer or something.” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Wow. That’s... intense.” 

“Not good?” 

“I’ll survive,” he smirks, and Sam elbows him. 

The movie is quite horrible, to be generous. Sam had been surprised when the first head got ripped off, but now they’re thirty minutes in and almost half the cast has lost a limb or an eye or an internal organ or a penis (if you count that poor unlucky extra in the bar scene). Sam glances at Bucky and finds him sort of pale in the dim light, looking at the top of the seat in front of him rather than the screen. 

It’s at this moment he remembers their conversation a dozen days ago, when Bucky said he didn’t like blood, and now here he is watching the goriest movie ever made because Sam bought him a ticket. 

It’s almost laughable, really, how much Sam has screwed up in the last month. 

“Do you like this movie?” he whispers, and Bucky looks at him and swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Liar.” 

“I mean, it’s… alright.” 

“It’s terrible.” 

Bucky smiles. “Yeah.” 

“Let’s go into another one,” Sam tells him, and starts gathering up their cups and popcorn bucket. 

“Is that allowed?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I’m not finishing this horror show, though, that’s for sure. Come on.” He eases himself from his seat and crouch-walks to the end of the row, squeezing past dropped candy and irritated viewers. He’s sure he looks ridiculous, if Bucky’s quiet laughter behind him is anything to go by, but eventually he reaches the exit. Stopping at the door, he turns to Bucky. 

“We’ve gotta be... inconspicuous,” he whispers. 

Bucky nods seriously, narrowing his eyes. “For sure.” 

“Okay. Follow my lead.” 

He pushes open the door and takes a sweeping glance of the hall. It’s desolate except for the beanpole of a man fifty yards to their left half-heartedly sweeping up popcorn. With a flair, Sam somersaults across the hallway and stops behind a trash can. 

Bucky is still standing in the dark doorway, his hand clamped over his mouth and his entire frame wavering with laughter. He furrows his brows and gives a ‘what the hell was that’ look, to which Sam frantically waves for him to follow.

Bucky rolls his eyes and simply walks toward him. Beanpole keeps sweeping popcorn, oblivious.

“Show-off.” 

“You just somersaulted and you’re calling _me_ a showoff?” 

Sam sighs. “Just… come on. Stay low.” 

Bucky smirks but follows anyway, and when Sam glances back he finds him still smiling, his eyes alight with some kind of playful skepticism. Sam is being stupid, he realizes, and he suddenly doesn’t care anymore. He watches Bucky sneak along with him, evading an underpaid teenager as if he’s a supervillain, and some ancient thing inside of him—the thing that constantly whispers _be cool, be cool be cool_ —shudders and collapses. 

Finally, they manage to duck into another theatre. They murmur apologies as they squeeze through the aisles and settle themselves at the back, stumbling in the dark and trying not to laugh. They’re sitting for about fifteen seconds when Sam curses. 

“Fuck.” 

Bucky looks at him, wide-eyed. “What?” 

“This is the same movie.” 

“Fuck.” 

He takes Bucky back to his apartment to show him Legally Blonde. They sit on his couch, and then he gets cold, so he gets a blanket, and then Bucky gets cold so he gets closer so he can be under it, too. He kisses him, and then kisses him again, and again. 

Sam sighs through a smile, and Bucky drops his head against his chest, and they fall asleep before Sam’s favorite scene. 

Things go wonderfully until they go to shit, which is how most things go, Sam has learned. Childhood was wonderful until middle school, college was wonderful until finals, adulthood was wonderful until Sarah left. 

He just didn’t think this would go badly so soon. 

It’s the end of November and life has continued happily. Sam has seen Bucky almost every day, even if just for a moment to drop by. Natasha and Steve have been playing Christmas songs every break they get. Stuart got a haircut that makes him look almost like an actual dog. 

Tonight Bucky leaves him with Shuri and takes Sam to the ice rink in his grumbling car. 

It’s nighttime, and the city lights blur on the ice, where people whisk by holding hands and laughing and slipping and grasping the wall for dear life. 

The two of them each had to grab the “Kiddie Helpers,” which are stacks of milk crates zip-tied together for you to lean on while you skate so you don’t end up in a full-body cast. Bucky laughs at Sam when he reaches for one. 

“I have an excuse,” he says, motioning to his tied-up sleeve. “You don’t.” 

Still, Bucky ends up slipping as soon as they step out, barely catching himself before he goes down face-first. 

“I’m glad you’re a paramedic,” he says.

“Man, if you fall, I will not get down and help you because there is no way I’d get back up.” 

They take off at the speed of a one-legged tortoise, holding their crates with white knuckles. 

“Skating is hard,” Bucky pants when they’re halfway around, and Sam scoffs. 

“For you, maybe. I’m a professional.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm.” 

Bucky laughs. “Do a trick, then.” 

Sam sighs dramatically. “Fine. I will.” He pushes the cart away, letting it knock against the wall, and pushes himself forward, arms out wide like a tightrope-walker. 

He lists to the right, then frantically steadies himself. “I’m going to do the trick now,” he says. 

Bucky leans forward on his crate, eyebrows raised expectantly. “I can’t wait.” 

“Any second now.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re gonna be amazed.” 

“I’ll bet.” 

Sam clears his throat. “Okay. Triple axel.” 

“Oh, god.” 

“Here I go.” 

Bucky grimaces. “Please don’t.” 

“I’m gonna do it.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

Sam crouches and then tries to move up and forward, but he only goes about an inch and then starts to slip. He goes down backwards and reaches out for Bucky’s crate behind him, which collapses forward, and he sees a flash that he's sure is Bucky falling. 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he registers dull pain against his back, brief and cushioned by his jacket. He rolls over, pushing away the cart as he scrambles for Bucky, a hundred apologies already falling off his tongue. 

But Bucky is on his back, gripping his stomach and laughing so hard Sam can’t even be sure he’s still breathing. His face is blushed with cold and laughter, bleary city lights painting his eyelashes. 

Sam drops his head onto the ice, ignoring the nearly-painful spike of affection welling in his chest. “Dammit,” he hisses. “Think that was just a double axel.” 

“It was definitely somethin’,” Bucky wheezes. 

They eat ravioli on the couch at Sam’s apartment. They’re cold again, so they end up lying together, barely fitting. Sam tucks his chin over Bucky’s head, his hair and gentle breath soft against his neck. He doesn’t mean to spend the night on the couch, but Bucky falls asleep and he doesn’t want to move him so he stays. 

It’s five-thirty a.m. when he wakes up. Bucky is still pressed against him, breathing softly, about to slide right off the couch. Sam gently pulls him closer and wraps an arm around him. He snuffles a bit but doesn’t wake. 

Sam blinks and looks around the apartment, absent-mindedly running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. 

Early morning makes everything look lonely. It used to always make him think of the people he saw in the hospital waiting room or praying in the ambulance across from him, the lovers and the mourners and the hopefuls. They had some sort of love he’d half-consciously deemed unobtainable for himself. He was too busy, or too awkward, or too reckless. He wasn’t serious enough, or collected enough, for something that precious. 

But then he sees Sarah’s lonely scarf on the coat rack, and hanging beside it, a calm blotch of navy blue, is Bucky’s jacket. 

This is good enough, he supposes, and presses a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. This is perfect. 

“‘Sam,” Natasha huffs. She’s upside-down in one of the garage’s folding chairs, her hair brushing the dusty floor. “What the hell are the lyrics to Silver Bells?”

Sam shrugs. “Ask Michael Bublé.” 

She gumbles something incomprehensible and pulls out her phone.

They’ve got the graveyard shift tonight, the first of December. Downtown is plagued with Christmas lights and miniature nativity scenes, and Steve’s strung some tiny white lights around the ambulance bay. 

“I think I should stop eating gluten,” Steve says suddenly. 

“You’ve gotta stop doing this, man,” Sam sighs. “Last week you were gonna be vegetarian.” 

“So?” 

“So how long’d you last?” 

“... a day and a half.” 

“Steve.” 

“Half a day.” 

Natasha looks up. “Is this about the brownies?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about the brownies, Natasha—”

“You’re the one who said they were ‘life-changing,’ sorry if—” 

She’s cut off by an abrupt warble from the radio. She stands quickly and reaches for it, asking for a repeat. 

“Car accident,” Scott's voice reports. “At the bridge near 17th; they need water rescue.” 

“Shit,” Natasha breathes. “Dude’s gotta be an icicle.”

Steve is already up and running, tossing last-minute necessities into the back as the rest of them hop into the truck. Sam grips the bench as Steve flicks on the siren and they begin to race through the city, the Christmas lights becoming a nauseating smear of watercolor. 

Natasha listens to the radio for a moment. “Wanda’s team is there already,” she reports back, “but they’re waiting on medical. They’ve got drysuits ready for us.” 

Wanda is in fact there when they arrive, standing beside the rail of the bridge and looking down. Sam rushes to her first and looks down, and the world sort of sharpens and then fades out again. 

“Jesus,” he chokes out, and then he’s turning around with a hand on his forehead. His chest feels like it’s wrapped in sharp tinfoil. Natasha’s hand is on his shoulder, though when it got there he doesn’t know.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, somewhat gently. 

He shakes his head and gasps in a breath. “Bucky,” he says, and that must be enough because she looks toward the water and then back at him and looks quietly horrified. 

“Breathe,” she tells him. “Come on.” 

So he breathes. He breathes while he puts on his wetsuit and sees Steve’s sympathetic look, he breathes while Wanda fixes him to the cable, he breathes as he begins to descend onto the life raft. 

He crouches on the unsteady raft, leaning forward. The car is just a few feet away, the driver’s seat closest to Sam. He sees a hand, a pale blur of skin against the dark water, he sees Bucky’s hair shining in the emergency lights from above, he sees a rough smear of blood. 

He swallows. “Bucky?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long with this one! School's been super crazy. 
> 
> Also, I did some research but I most likely got a lot wrong, so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Thanks for reading!

Sam wishes he could be angry. He wishes that it had been a drunk driver who’d pushed Bucky’s car off the bridge and into the frigid canal, someone he could yell at and punch and see arrested, but it wasn’t. It was a woman and her child. (They’re both unscathed, heading to the hospital as a precaution.) They slid on black ice and swerved, colliding with the front of Bucky’s vehicle, and the combination of the impact and Bucky’s attempted swerve had pushed him through the railing and over the edge. The front had hit first, mashing into the sandy slope below the water, and sank slowly until the back end vanished into the dark. 

That’s what they told Sam, anyway. 

“Bucky?” he tries. He can’t see much except the light bouncing off the water, so he switches on the flashlight he’d been given. He sets it on the raft before him, where it wavers in the tide but shines steadily on Bucky.

Bucky’s curled over himself, his head lolling against his chest and his arm hanging limply at his side. There’s blood on his face, though Sam can’t see much through Bucky’s hair. 

He swallows, reaches out to touch and stops. “Buck?” 

There’s silence for a moment, and his heart collapses, deflating like a stabbed balloon and lying, shuddering, at the bottom of his ribcage. 

But then there’s a small shift, and Bucky’s head rises minutely as the almost-imperceptible sound of shallow breathing floats over the water. He winces and freezes, then tries to bring a hand to his face. It shakes terribly, and his breathing quickens. 

“Bucky,” Sam says, as gently as he can. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just…” 

Bucky looks toward him then. His eyes are wide and clouded with pain and panic, his face is pale and his lips are purple, his left eyebrow is matted with blood from his hairline. He shivers, looking at Sam like he’s a ghost. He opens his mouth just to shiver more, and then closes it, swallowing hard. Sam can hear his breathing, quick and shallow and not at all healthy. 

“Buck,” he says, and he can’t wait anymore so he leans forward, through the shattered driver’s window, and touches Bucky’s face. He’s gentle, there’s no weight behind his fingers, as he brushes his non-bloodied cheekbone. Bucky’s eyelashes flicker as his eyes become glassy. 

“It’s okay,” Sam reminds him. “I know you’re freaked out, but you’re okay.” 

Bucky makes a jerking motion Sam thinks might be a nod. His teeth are chattering, he realizes, and he just looks so cold and confused and fucking scared that it makes Sam’s chest seize up. 

“Can…” he tries, and then falters. This is his job. He can do this, just like he’s done it a million times. 

But this is Bucky. Bucky, who has been a somewhat-permanent presence for the last several weeks, Bucky, who Sam is sort of in love with even though it’s way too early for that. 

He clears his throat. “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?” he asks. He has no clue if Bucky’s even lucid enough to understand, let alone answer, but he tries anyway, leaning closer. 

Bucky tries twice to answer before he can speak. “I… ‘m fine. I’m stu—I’m just stuck,” he gasps, and he’s shaking so hard Sam’s hand can’t stay on his face anymore. 

“Okay,” Sam nods. “That’s okay. Where are you stuck?” 

“One of—one of my legs,” he shudders, breathing so raggedly Sam worries he’ll pass out. “I don’t… I don’t remember—Sam, I don’t re—I can’t—”

“Shh, hey.” Sam pushes the raft closer, gets a soft hand on Bucky’s shoulder, another on his neck. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be fine, alright?” 

He nods again, shakily, but a tear mingles with the blood on his face. 

“One of your legs is stuck?” Sam asks, and another nod confirms it. “Okay. Okay. Do you know which one?” 

A ragged inhale tears itself from Bucky’s throat, and he shakes his head, his eyes alight with panic. “I don’t… I can’t f—can’t feel them,” he wheezes. 

Sam’s stomach drops for a moment before he regains his senses. “That’s okay. It’s probably just the shock and the cold, alright? You’re gonna be fine.” 

Bucky laughs through a sob. “How—how many times are you gonna say that?” 

Sam smiles. “Not sure yet.” He picks up his flashlight. “I’m gonna try to check out your legs, okay? See what’s stuck where.” 

Bucky hums a soft confirmation, and Sam leans carefully over him, careful not to jostle his injuries or the car. He shines the light into the water and bites down on his tongue.

The left leg, the one nearest to Sam, is free, but the other is clamped between mounds of crushed metal. It’s at his lower calf, and Sam can see blood on the fabric of Bucky’s pants. 

He sits back. “Alright. So you were right about being stuck,” he says, and Bucky scoffs weakly. 

“At least—,” he begins, and then stops as he’s taken by a violent shudder. “At least I didn’t… least I didn’t lose an arm this time.” 

Despite himself, Sam laughs, and Bucky manages a weak smile. He leans back on the raft, pulling his shoulders from the car window, but takes Bucky’s hand and keeps it. 

“Hey!” he calls up, and feels immediately guilty when Bucky winces at the volume. “I need equipment down here!”

He sees Steve’s face look down on him, half-glowing in orange light from the lamps above the bridge. He nods and looks to Wanda, who begins to secure him to the line. 

“Steve’s coming down, okay?” Sam tells Bucky. “He’s gonna help get your leg free.” He looks down at the car door separating them, and tries to judge its influence on the car’s position. If opening it causes the car to slip, then Bucky goes under, and he can’t let that happen. 

But it’s in the way, and Steve definitely won’t be able to use equipment with the blockage. Gingerly, Sam sets his free hand on the door handle. 

“I’m gonna open this, okay? Stay still for me.” he says. Bucky squeezes his hand harder, shutting his eyes. His skin is frigid against Sam’s. 

It’s difficult one-handed, but he manages to pull back the handle and begin to ease the door open. For a brief moment, the back of the car creaks, a horrible, low sound, and Bucky gasps and strangles Sam’s hand, his chest heaving. 

“It’s okay, Buck, it’s okay,” Sam tells him, though he isn’t sure until the sound stops. Carefully, he opens the door enough to access Bucky’s leg, maneuvering his raft so he’s now floating right in the doorway.

Steve appears beside him a moment later, easing onto the raft with an orange hydraulic spreader below his arm. 

“His leg’s stuck,” Sam tells him, though it’s obvious now that the door’s open and the light is still shining into the water. The water rises to about halfway above Bucky’s abdomen, and Sam notices that he’s nearly stopped shivering altogether, which is bad. “And… and he’s hypothermic.” 

Steve nods grimly, then shifts his weight forward. “Hey, Bucky,” he says gently. “How ya doin?”

“I mean…” Bucky starts, gasping his way through his words. “Not great.” 

Steve laughs weakly and situates the spreader in his hands. “This is gonna help get your leg out, alright? It’s basically gonna go in the gap and open it, kinda like a car jack. It… it might hurt a little bit.” 

“I can’t—I can’t feel them anyway, I don’t know why I can’t feel them,” Bucky chokes. “My legs.” 

Sam strokes his thumb over Bucky’s icy hand, trying to offer some comfort if not warmth. Steve’s eyebrows are drawn up and he exchanges a quick, sad look with Sam. 

“That’s okay,” he says. He starts to move the spreader toward Bucky’s leg before he stops. “Do you want Sam to do it?” he asks. 

Bucky looks between them, still breathing thinly, and shakes his head. “Can you—can you stay, though?” he asks Sam. 

“God, of course, Buck,” Sam says. “Of course.” He moves as close as he can, placing his spare hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky leans into the touch, and his uneven breathing hums through Sam’s arms. 

Hesitantly, Steve slides the spreader into the gap where Bucky’s leg is trapped. The cord runs all the way up the cable, disappearing over the top of the bridge. 

“Go ahead!” Steve calls up once the device is stable. Bucky flinches, and Sam moves impossibly closer. He presses a small kiss to Bucky’s knuckles that Steve pretends he doesn’t see. 

After a moment, the spreader’s jaws begin to open, and the car groans as metal begins to shift upward. It’s moving slowly, and it’s barely a half-centimeter up before Bucky cries out, jerking in his seat. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I can f—I can feel it now.” 

“It’s okay,” Sam tells him. “It’s gonna be done in just a minute.” But Bucky’s paling beyond what Sam thought possible, and as the metal jerks upward even more, he sucks in a sharp inhale, closing his eyes as his head starts to roll. 

“Fuck. Steve, stop,” Sam hisses, moving his hands to cup Bucky’s face. The machine continues, and he whips around. “Tell them to stop!” 

“Cut it!” Steve yells to the bridge, and, abruptly, the jaws halt. “What happened?” 

“He’s got a head injury,” Sam says worriedly, regarding the blood on Bucky’s temple. “I don’t want him to pass out.” 

Bucky’s blinking sluggishly, his grasp weak on Sam’s hand. His fingernails have turned blue. 

“Is he concussed?” Steve asks. 

“Don’t know. He was unconscious when I got down here, I think.” Sam hates talking about Bucky like he’s not here, and he brushes away his hair in apology.

Steve grimaces. “It’s almost done, I think. If we can just go for a few seconds more, we can get him out. He needs oxygen, I think; his breathing’s off. And heat.” 

Sam nods. “I know. Fuck. Okay.” He strokes Bucky’s cheekbone. “I’m so sorry, Buck.” 

Bucky looks at him blearily, eyes half-lidded. 

“Start it!” Steve calls, and the spreader comes alive again, pushing upward against the mass of debris on Bucky’s shin. 

Sam stares through the dark water as the metal rises, beginning to lose contact with skin. It leaves a bloody mess behind, though, and when Sam looks up Bucky’s head is lolled back against the headrest, his eyes closed. 

“Shit. Bucky?” he asks. “Bucky, wake up.” Panic spits sparks through his sternum. 

“It’s okay, Sam,” Steve tells him solemnly, squeezing his shoulder. “He won’t feel it now.” 

Sam nearly collapses forward, his hands still framing Bucky’s pale face. “Jesus, Buck. Jesus.” 

“Got it,” Steve says suddenly, and he reaches for Bucky's now-free leg just as the car begins to move. 

It slides backwards, and the water level crawls up Bucky’s chest. Steve’s hands jump to the spreader, trying to keep it in place, and he looks up and calls out to Sam, his voice barely carrying over the screeching of the destroyed vehicle. 

“Pull him out!” 

As gently as he can, Sam winds his arms around Bucky’s chest, hoping he’s missing whatever injury is causing his poor breathing. He leans back, feet digging into the short wall of the raft, and pulls. Steve quickly guides his legs from the wreckage and they land in an unceremonious heap on the raft as the car continues to slide. 

Bucky’s lying in Sam’s lap, his legs still thrown over Steve, who’s carefully inspecting the wound on his calf. Sam cradles his head in the crook of his elbow, curled over his body like it’ll be enough to warm him and heal him and make him okay. 

Bucky regains consciousness on the way up. He shifts his head and then blinks slowly, then shudders once and begins to panic. Sam tries to calm him, touching his face and kissing his hand and murmuring simple comforts, but he knows that all Bucky can probably feel right now is pain and shock and cold. 

Steve doesn’t say anything when Sam’s eyes well up, and he’s thankful. 

There’s a stretcher waiting at the top, and a hundred gloved hands are reaching and lifting Bucky from Sam’s arms, and even though Bucky felt like a block of ice, Sam is somehow colder without him. 

“Be careful with him,” he’s saying, even though he knows they will be. Steve is saying something and then Natasha is placing an oxygen mask over Bucky’s face, and Sam can see Bucky’s blurry eyes flicking around, overwhelmed. “Be careful with him.” 

In the ambulance, the others cut away Bucky's wet clothes and pile blankets over him. Gently, they palpate his abdomen, finding broken ribs. They press gauze to the wound on his head.

The whole time, Sam stays crouched near his face, wanting to touch but not knowing how. 

There’s been a horrible, sickening feeling twisting in his chest all night, squeezing it like a snake murders prey. He supposes he understands it now. It’s panic and concern and fear and grief, and it’s all there because love is in there, too, somewhere. He’s not sure how it happened, or when, but it’s there now, a little glowing flower in the storm of worry. 

Bucky passes out again when they’re just a few blocks away from the scene. They’re driving uphill, so Sam can still see the canal through the back window, lurking darkly below. 

Bucky's car is gone, swallowed whole. 

When his gaze leaves the water, he finds Bucky’s eyes closed, his face relaxed in unconsciousness. Sam adjusts his oxygen mask, brushes away his stray hair, and keeps talking even though can’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I just wanted to say thanks so much to everyone who's been reading this and leaving comments! This is my first fic and obviously I'm not too good at it, so I really appreciate all the support. Have a great day!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> I'm sorry this took me so long to post. Life has been kind of wack lately but it's all good now so I should be able to get back on track with this. Thanks for sticking around!

Someone’s shaking Sam awake. He starts immediately, jerking out of sleep and then blinking away a montage of dizziness. Natasha is standing over him, a hand on his shoulder. 

He’s slumped uncomfortably in a waiting room chair, the plastic armrests digging into his spine. He sits up, cursing himself for falling asleep. 

“He’s out of surgery,” Natasha says, and he’s on his feet in an instant. Bucky had needed a couple operations: one to correct the nearly-open fracture in his leg and one to fix the broken ribs that had been putting pressure on his lungs. The worst of it had been the hypothermia, which had worried everyone in the ambulance before they got it under control—Sam had almost rocketed through the roof when Bucky’s pulse began to slow. 

“He’s on fluids now,” Natasha says, crossing her arms. “And he’s got one of those electric blankets, so he should get warmed up pretty soon.” She studies Sam’s face for a moment, and he can only imagine how tired he must look, because her face softens. “He’s fine,” she tells him. 

He nods, laughing something dry and humorless. “He better be.” 

Bucky _is_ fine, sort of. 

He’s got a thick bandage taped to his temple and he’s still pale and slightly trembling under the blanket, where an IV line disappears under the fabric, but he’s fine. He’s alive. 

He looks up wearily when Sam comes in, raising his head a bit with a goofy, drunken smile before he decides it’s too tiring and rests it back against his pillow. Sam’s chest loosens a bit at seeing him there, smiling and in one piece. He sits beside the bed on a padded chair and leans against the mattress. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” Bucky slurs. He picks at the top of the blanket, his hand shaking slightly, his fingernails not quite flushed back to their normal color. “Sorry about all that.”

Sam scoffs fondly. “You should be,” he says. “Gave me a damn aneurysm back there.” 

Bucky smiles, a mild, sleepy expression. “At least I kept my cool,” he says, his smirk widening. “Didn’t freak out or cry or anything.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, you were very stoic.” He reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair from Bucky’s eyes, and Bucky leans into the touch, closing his eyes with another dazed smile. 

“Stuart’s gonna be worried about me,” he says softly, his eyes still closed, his face now cupped in Sam’s palm. 

Sam sighs. “I don’t think Stuart has enough brain cells to worry, Buck.”

He snorts softly at that, and Sam strokes a thumb over his cheekbone, avoiding the gauze strapped to his head. The bruising on his face looks harsh in the lights of the hospital—makes him look delicate and soft and somewhat breakable. Sam finds himself wanting to be closer to him, or to help him warm up, or decrease his pain somehow, and it jars him, how overwhelming it is to care so much. 

After a moment Bucky forces his eyes open, though they’re obviously heavy, and Sam smiles. He touches his cheek and leans in to drop a careful kiss on his forehead. 

“You can sleep,” he tells him, and Bucky’s out in seconds, his head growing heavy against Sam’s palm. He doesn’t move it. 

Steve bursts into the room half an hour later, looking guilty when he sees Sam’s glare and Bucky, who somehow managed to sleep through it. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, gingerly closing the door behind him. “I’ve got good news.” 

Sam looks up, expectant. 

“I talked to the doctor,” Steve begins, quietly settling into a chair on the other side of the bed, “and he said that as long as his breathing and body temperature are looking good, he can go home in a couple days.” 

Sam exhales, the frame of his shoulders dropping like strings had been snapped. So it isn’t serious. So he’ll be okay, surely. 

“That’s… that’s great, Steve.” 

Steve nods, then shifts a bit, like he’s grown uncomfortable. “Do you... “ he stops; looks at Bucky’s face to make sure he’s still asleep. He is—he’s still breathing softly and evenly against Sam’s hand. “Does he have any family?” Steve asks. “Do you know of, like, any siblings or… like, cousins?”

Sam’s gaze sweeps across the floor. They’ve never spoken about family. They’ve never spoken about much, to be fair, but family hasn’t really come up. Sam is sure he’s mentioned his own sister, or his mother, but Bucky hasn’t spoken of his. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Doesn’t he have anybody listed? For an emergency contact or anything?” 

Steve hesitates—looks pained. 

Sam frowns. “What?” 

“You’re his emergency contact, Sam,” he says slowly, carefully. “You didn’t know?” 

Sam doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about this. Of course he’s glad Bucky trusts him, that he’s the first name he gave for support. But of course this means Sam must be one of the only names to give. 

Speechless, he shakes his head. He finds himself stroking Bucky’s cheekbone again, somewhat absent-mindedly. 

“Oh,” Steve says. He looks around, finds nothing, and then looks back to Sam. “Well, anyway, I just asked because he’s probably gonna need some help getting around after all this. Like, he won’t be able to walk too well and he should probably be on bedrest for a while, and even after that he’s gotta take it easy because of the ribs and the lung—”

“He can stay with me.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “What?” 

Sam shrugs. “He can stay with me.” 

“Oh,” Steve says. “I guess that works out, then.”

Sam almost responds before a soft noise from beside them cuts him off. It’s a short, breathy groan, and Bucky’s eyelashes are fluttering open. 

“Hey, Buck,” Sam says, leaning in. Bucky watches him for a moment, then blinks a few times as if to wake himself up. He moves upward, and Sam helps him gently, letting him sit up a little bit against his pillows. 

“Hi,” he responds. He looks around for a moment, slow to process, and his gaze lands on Steve at his opposite bedside. “What did I miss?” 

“You’re going home with Sam,” Steve tells him, and Sam can feel himself blush. Bucky, though, laughs softly and looks back to Sam with another loopy smile. 

“Cool,” he says. But as Sam tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear, Bucky’s face turns mildly sad, and he shakes his head. 

“What?” 

“Stuart can’t live there,” he says. “Your place doesn’t allow dogs, and I can’t make Shuri watch him all that time.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, then, I guess I’m coming home with you.” 

After the initial relief— _Bucky’s okay; he’s alive and he’s gonna be fine_ —life adopts a sort of brevity. Sam goes home briefly to sleep and shower, and when he returns the electric blanket is gone and the IV lines are out and Bucky's sitting up and talking. 

After that, there's a miniature fiasco in which Bucky attempts to learn how to walk on a crutch. It would be going a lot worse if Sam wasn't there to catch him every four minutes, but eventually he gets used to it. 

There's a bulky cast on his leg and his ribs are still wrapped, but the clunky gauze on his head has been replaced with a simple thin bandage. 

“I look sort of normal,” he says, relieved, when he sees himself. “Like I barely drove off a bridge.” 

Sam was afraid it would be awkward to move into Bucky’s apartment, to inject himself so abruptly into his life. But somehow the accident has bared them: they’ve already seen each other so vulnerable, and now there is nothing to be ashamed of. 

Stuart hurls himself at Bucky as soon as they open the apartment door, and Sam has to do a Secret Service-level move to stop him from slamming into Bucky’s still-healing ribs. 

“Stuart!” Bucky exclaims, leaning down with a wince to pet him. The dog licks his face, his tail sweeping blurs across the floor.

When Bucky stands again, it’s clear he’s exhausted: his face has gone slightly pale and he’s leaning heavily on his crutch. The walk through the lobby and the hallway was more than he’s moved in a week, and his lungs aren’t all that trusty yet. 

So Sam leads him to the bedroom, a careful arm around his waist. He blushes as he helps him change into pajamas, and Bucky laughs at him, a light, soft sound that makes him blush even darker. 

He lays him carefully on the bed, and Bucky watches him lean the crutches against the wall and flick off the lamp. It’s still daytime, and the room is awash with pale, sleepy blue. 

“Come on,” Bucky says drowsily, patting the bed beside him. 

Sam laughs, hands in his pockets. “I shouldn’t.” 

Bucky dramatically flops his head back against his pillow. “Of course you should. You’re my… unlabeled special friend.” 

Sam snorts. “You can call me your boyfriend now, I think.” 

“Okay, boyfriend, get in here.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Sam takes off his jacket and shoes and eases himself onto the bed beside Bucky. He’s trying to be mindful of his injuries—he doesn’t want to bump him or shift too much—but Bucky nestles up beside him, tucking his face against his neck. He can feel him smiling.

Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, kisses his hair, and lets himself sleep. 

Bucky stays in bed the next few days. Sam brings him food and water and pain medication and helps him to and from the bathroom, and Bucky gives him a million “thank you”s and “I’m sorry”s and “this is so embarrassing”s that Sam shushes easily. 

After that, he moves to the couch. He gets a little more active each day, walking around the kitchen while Sam cooks, circling the couch while Sam looks for movies on the TV. 

They start talking about what they might do when Bucky’s healed. Bucky says they should try skating again. Somehow, in all their visions of life post-recovery, Sam is still living here. He doesn’t mind. 

The first time he says it, it’s an accident. He’s leaving for groceries, and Bucky’s half-asleep on the couch, Stuart nuzzled in beside him. His ribs were hurting him all day, so Sam gave him his meds and propped him up with pillows and is on his way to get some foods he likes. 

He shrugs on his coat, grabs his keys, and calls to Bucky over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon,” he says, and then, just before he closes the door: “Love you.” 

As soon as the apartment door shuts behind him, he freezes. 

_Fuck._

At the grocery store, he picks up some things from the bakery and some treats for Stuart and tries to decide if he meant what he said. It’s obvious: of course he did. 

He just didn’t mean to say it. 

Maybe Bucky hadn’t heard him. Or, if he did, perhaps he was so tired that he won’t even remember it when Sam gets home. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal at all, and they can keep on going just how they were. 

But that night finds them together on the couch, sharing a grocery-store tiramisu. 

“Tastes like coffee,” Sam says. 

“That’s because it has coffee in it,” Bucky tells him. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool.”

Bucky smiles, his shy gaze fixed on his plate. “I love you, too, by the way," he says. 

Sam blinks. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little bit shorter but we're almost to the end!!!!   
> Thank you to everyone still reading this! :)

“You’ve gotta go back to work,” Bucky tells him, again. He’s sitting at the counter today, propped precariously on a stool, his crutch leaning against his arm. He looks better than he did when he first came home, but his face still looks too thin, his undereyes too dark.

Sam shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, again. They’ve had this conversation a million times in the last week. It always goes the same way: Bucky insists, over and over, and Sam rejects him until he’s left with no choice but to ignore him completely. 

Bucky straightens up, his papery cast scraping briefly against the counter. He flinches and tries too late to conceal it. “Sam, I’m fine.” 

“You are not fine.” 

“I am!” Bucky says, and makes a sound like a frustrated, strangled laugh. “I’m good, Sam, really.” 

Sam pauses, leaning back against the stove to scrutinize him. The bandage on his head has been removed, leaving a small streak: a fresh, crooked scar blushed pink. The wrappings, too, are gone from his ribs, but Sam knows they’re still sore, not quite healed yet. The cast, though, plastered bulkily to Bucky’s right leg, remains. 

Finally Sam shakes his head, turning dramatically back to the stove to push his spatula through a glob of scrambled eggs. 

Behind him, Bucky sighs. “I don’t want you to put your whole life on hold for this,” he says. 

Sam knows exactly how these conversations end, so he decides to skip to the “totally ignoring Bucky” part. He stays silent, adding a few more drops of hot sauce and another shake or two of pepper into the pan. 

He does sort of want to go back to work—he misses Steve and Natasha and their nonsensical banter in the ambulance bay—but he won’t tell Bucky that. He won’t, because Bucky needs him, however much he wants to deny it. 

A scoff from behind him, and Bucky’s voice wound tight: “Sam, come on.” 

Sam adjusts the dial on the stove, sprinkling a pinch of salt over the eggs. He begins to whistle an old song from childhood, just in case he isn’t being dismissive enough. 

“Sam, please.” 

Apparently not. More pepper, a dash of shredded cheese, a half-hearted stir. 

“Sam.” Bucky sounds a bit pained now. “I feel like I’m sort of ruining your life here.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam says with a roll of his eyes, finally turning around. “Of course you’re not.”

“You haven’t been out to do anything in weeks.” Bucky says, his head tilted and his dark eyebrows drawn up. “You haven’t seen your friends or been to work at all. You’re just… stuck here, all the time.” 

Sam shrugs, crosses his arms. “I like being stuck here.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

He brings the spatula to his chin, miming an expression of deep thought. “Hmm… no.” He turns back to the stove, ignoring Bucky’s cut-off noise of exasperation. 

“Sam.” 

“Nope.”

“Sam, _please_.” 

“Nope” Sam repeats. “How spicy do you like your eggs, by the way? Like, I like mine really spicy, but—”

“Jesus, Sam, just _listen _to me.”__

__Sam turns. Bucky’s face is dark and pleading, his tremoring hand nervously grasping the countertop. Sam stills, lets his face soften, drops his hands to his sides in caution surrender._ _

__Bucky fidgets for a moment in the silence, blinking and picking at his fingernails. Finally he takes in a ragged breath and runs his hand through his hair. “I appreciate everything you’re doing, really, and I’m so… lucky, to have you here doing all this for me, but… I feel so bad, and I just want you to have a life.”_ _

__Silence returns for a moment. Bucky looks up at the ceiling and then back at the countertop._ _

__“I _do_ have a life, Buck,” Sam says, softly. _ _

__“But I’m keeping you from it.”_ _

__“You’re _part_ of it.”_ _

__Bucky bites his lip, his features growing tight with distress. He looks like he’s about to cry. “Sam, you’re not understanding.”_ _

__Sam shakes his head. “I don’t… Buck, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” He feels stupid all of a sudden, out of his depth, standing in the middle of the kitchen with a spatula in his hand and eggs probably burning on the stove behind him._ _

__Bucky presses the heel of his hand to his temple, and the area blooms white with pressure. “You’re not listening to me,” he says. His voice is quick and quiet._ _

__Sam laughs shortly. “Well, I mean, you’re not making sense.”_ _

__“Because you won’t listen to me!” Bucky cries, voice louder than it’s been all morning._ _

__“What do you want me to do?” Sam asks, tossing up his hands. “Leave you here and go to work?”_ _

__“Yes!”_ _

__“Bucky, you’re being unreasonable—”_ _

__“And you’re not listening to me!”_ _

__“How am I not listening?” Sam asks, his throat tight with exhausted frustration._ _

__“Because you—you won’t…” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and rubs a harsh hand across his brow. “You’re just not listening to me.”__

 _ _Sam clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll go. Is that what you want?”_ _

__Bucky swallows. “Yes.”_ _

__Sam scoffs. “Buck—”_ _

__“Please, Sam, go.”_ _

__“Bucky—”_ _

__“Please.” It’s a whisper and nothing more. Bucky won’t look at him._ _

__Sam shakes his head, twists the stove dial until the fire dies, and moves to grab his keys and jacket from beside the door. He leaves the blackened eggs cooling on the stove and Bucky sitting quietly at the counter, staring down at his cast._ _

__

__There’s a little wooden bench outside of Bucky’s apartment building with a missing leg. It’s crusted with ice, and Sam kicks away a patch before he sits down._ _

__People are angry when they’re in pain, he knows that. It’s happened a million times in ambulances; hell, it happened with that old man Bucky’s dog ran into at their first meeting. Sam’s seen it a thousand times: the short tempers, the frustration, the constant rejection of any kind of help._ _

__Usually it’s easy to defuse. He can agree and give a patient a little space, or help them in a subtler way. But with Bucky it’s difficult. It’s difficult to see him in pain and it’s difficult to leave him and it’s difficult to stop himself from helping._ _

__Of course, it’s because he loves him, which is annoying._ _

__

__After about twenty minutes, Sam walks down the block and finds an antique store. Everything inside is horrendously overpriced and smells like old people, but he ends up buying a spoon for eighteen dollars. The woman at the register tells him the spoon is from the 50s, which isn’t that old for an antique spoon but Sam takes it anyway._ _

__He walks aimlessly for several minutes, the spoon tucked into a pocket of his jacket. It’s overcast and gloomy. He’s getting cold, he’s getting lonely, so he goes home._ _

__

__The living room is empty and so is the kitchen. The eggs are still on the stove, probably almost frigid now. Sam’s stomach turns around itself and begins to sink._ _

__“Bucky?” he calls._ _

__Abruptly he hears a measured clacking, and sees Stuart waddling toward him from the bedroom._ _

__“Hey, Stuart,” he says when the dog stumbles to a stop at his feet. “Where’s Buck?”_ _

__Obviously, Stuart is unhelpful. He looks up at Sam blankly, then turns and immediately crashes into the wall. He blinks, sneezes twice, and then lies down in the middle of the hallway. Sam moves past him to the bedroom._ _

__“Buck?” he whispers into the door, half-open. The lights are off, the room doused in the evening's navy blue, but he can’t make out a shape in the bed. He’s about to turn away and take his search elsewhere when he hears a small voice from inside the room._ _

__“Sam?”_ _

__It’s soft and pained, and Sam’s chest tightens like a string’s been pulled taut. Frantically, he slaps on the light and moves inside._ _

__Bucky is slumped between the closet and his nightstand, leaning back against the wall with his arm draped loosely across his ribs. His crutch lies uselessly a few feet away, and tear tracks shine on his face as he blinks in the new light._ _

__Sam’s near him in an instant, shoving the nightstand away so he can kneel beside him. He slides close, gentle hands on Bucky’s face. “Buck?” he asks. He can hear his own voice shaking, wavering up and down with his anxious breaths. “Can you hear me?”_ _

__Bucky nods, sniffs once, drops his head against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m so sorry.”_ _

__“It’s okay,” Sam says immediately. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” He looks down at Bucky’s cast, then at his ribs, wrapped weakly by his arm. “Did you hurt yourself?”_ _

__Bucky shakes his head, but his face is tight, a picture of shame and dread. “I just… I fucking tripped; I don’t even know how I managed to trip on nothing.” He laughs wetly. “I’m so fucking stupid; I’m so sorry.”_ _

__“No, no, it’s okay,” Sam tells him. He cradles his face in his hands, tries futilely to wipe away tears and faint lines of distress. “How long have you been stuck here?”_ _

__Bucky looks down at the carpet, shivering. “Half an hour or so,” he whispers._ _

__“Half an h—Jesus, Buck, Jesus.” Grief crackles in his sternum as Sam gently takes his shoulders and pulls him into his chest. He holds him there, trying not to cry himself, as Bucky shudders against him. “Why didn’t… honey, why didn’t you call me?”_ _

__A strained breath, a muted sob. “You’re not supposed to have to take care of me all the time.”_ _

__Sam pulls him closer, running a hand over his hair. “I don’t mind, Buck,” he says honestly, and Bucky nods against his shoulder. “Really, I don’t mind.”_ _

__“Thank you,” Bucky whispers. “Thank you, thank you,” over and over and over._ _

__

__They stay there until dusk falls quietly around them, and Bucky looks up. “You never went to work?” he asks drowsily._ _

__Sam laughs, kissing his forehead. “No,” he says. “I bought us an old spoon, though.”_ _

__Bucky nods groggily, dropping his head back against Sam’s shoulder. “Nice.”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“...Why?”_ _

__“I don’t know.”_ _

__“...okay.”_ _

__

__In bed, Bucky’s head rests on Sam's chest as they watch an old rerun of M.A.S.H. His hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and every time he laughs softly at the TV, Sam is awash with affection. They fall asleep easily, suspended in warmth._ _

__

__Morning finds them face-to-face, Bucky smiling something soft and hopeful, as Sam studies his long eyelashes, his lips, his new scar. He kisses him carefully, lazily, and Bucky returns it, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck._ _

__They lose balance and roll sideways, and Bucky ends up on top of Sam in a heap of limbs and sheets._ _

__“Shit,” Sam hisses, remembering Bucky’s ribs. “Are you okay?”_ _

__Bucky simply nods, laughing into Sam’s neck, and Sam’s relieved laughter breezes through Bucky’s hair._ _

__At some point, Stuart interrupts them, somehow launching himself onto their bed with his skinny goblin legs. He forces himself between them, snorting and slobbering, and Bucky laughs and ruffles his fur while Sam grimaces in disgust._ _

__“Jesus, his breath,” he gags, and Bucky rolls his eyes._ _

__“Oh!” he says, his face brightening. “Before… you know, before the whole car thing… I had the vet check him out and he’s actually a lot younger than we thought. Like, he’s actually healthy.” Bucky pauses to kiss the top of Stuart’s head. “The doc said he’ll be around for a long time.”_ _

__Sam bites his tongue and forces a smile as Stuart’s hideous, mossy tongue comes to lick his cheek. “Wonderful,” he says._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Suggestions are totally welcome!


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